A MAN LIKE SMITH

by Marilyn Pappano

  He liked the flavor of summer in the South.

  Forcing his mind back to the matter at hand, he sighed. Remy was right. He could have Jolie brought into his office, could demand that she reveal her source, and when she refused—because Michael was also right; she would never give up an informant—he could have her arrested. He could go before a judge and get search warrants for her home, her office, her car. He could give the FBI free rein to scrutinize every last minute detail of her life. By the time they finished with her, she wouldn't know what privacy was. She wouldn't have a single, solitary secret left.

  He hated to do that to her.

  But he would, if there wasn't any other option. "I've got to get going. I'm already late," Michael said, rising from his chair. "If you finish up here in time, come on over. We'll keep dinner warm for you."

  "Thanks, but don't count on seeing me." By the time he finished with Alexander and Shawna, he wouldn't have the stomach for anything as spicy and highly flavored as Michael's Cajun dinner. He would probably go home to a dinner of aspirin and antacid.

  He'd known from the time he was a boy, Smith thought as Remy and Michael left, that he would become a lawyer and would go into some sort of government service. That was what Kendricks men did, for at least the first fifteen to twenty years of their careers; his father, grandfather, uncles and cousins had been prosecutors, attorneys general, congressmen and ambassadors. He had never doubted that he would follow in their footsteps, had never considered that he might even have a choice. He had gone to Harvard Law, as everyone before him had, and then he had gone to work for the Justice Department.

  That was twelve years ago, and he'd never regretted it.

  But the thought about aspirin and antacid hadn't been a joke. Lately he was finding himself taking more than just work home with him from the office. In the past few months it was headaches and tense muscles, and his stomach felt as if it were doing its damnedest to supply him with an ulcer. He needed to relax. He needed a personal life. He needed one day when he wasn't working on or planning for or worrying over the Falcone case.

  He needed to see that bastard, and all the bastards who worked for him, in prison.

  This case had become personal. The moment Falcone had decided to get Remy off his back by framing him for murder, Smith's professional judgment had been skewed, and he had never gotten it on track again. He never prosecuted cases without merit. He always wanted to see the bad guys punished and justice prevail.

  But he wanted more this time. He wanted Falcone and Carlucci and all the others to suffer. He wanted them to pay for everyone they had hurt, for every crime they had ever committed or even thought about committing. He wanted not just justice, but revenge.

  Maybe Jolie Wade could help him get it.

  Or maybe she would stand in the way of it.

  He didn't know the reporter as well as he would like to. Unlike Michael, who considered her a friend, Smith could only claim her as a professional acquaintance. He'd done a few interviews with her and had spoken with her a number of times in the past—always with other media representatives present—about one case or another. He had even run into her a time or two socially—pleasant, cordial, forgettable encounters.

  Except he hadn't forgotten them.

  The simple fact—one he hadn't admitted to Michael or Remy or even himself—was that he was attracted to her.

  And she intimidated the hell out of him.

  Thanks to his education and his upbringing, there wasn't a social situation he couldn't handle. Thanks to his job and, again, his upbringing, there wasn't a class of people out there he wasn't comfortable with—servants or socialites, rich or poor, white collar or blue, good guys or bad, victims or criminals.

  Except Jolie Wade. She was in a class by herself.

  He knew little personal information about her. She was about his age, possibly a few years younger. She was single. Her ambition was legendary, and so was her talent. He knew that her competitive spirit carried over from work into other areas of her life; she regularly competed in and often won local 10-K runs, and she was rumored to hold her own in tennis and to be one hell of a poker player.

  He also knew that she was brash, aggressive and blunt spoken. As a prosecutor, he appreciated the direct air about her, the way she met his gaze and his questions head-on; as a man, it sometimes unnerved him.

  He knew she had a soft, rounded Southern drawl and a strong sense—as Southern women seemed to have—of who she was. She had a fierce pride, a stubborn streak the proverbial mile wide and personal ethics stronger than any society could have pushed on her.

  And she had the prettiest green eyes he had ever seen.

  From the desk behind him, the intercom interrupted the silence. It was his boss, summoning Smith to his office. He scowled at his reflection in the window glass before turning away. He had been expecting the call from Alexander, but that didn't make this meeting any more pleasing a prospect. Still, he slipped into his suit coat, straightened his tie and collected his briefcase from the credenza, then shut off the lights as he left his office.

  It had been a long day. He had already put in nearly twelve hours at his desk, including lunch. Now he had to be the outlet for Alexander's—and probably Shawna's—frustration before he could even think about going home.

  It was a sure bet that Jolie Wade was already home, kicked back and taking it easy or getting ready to go out for an evening of pleasure.

  It was an even surer bet that no one in the Falcone camp would kick back and take it easy—and not just this weekend. Jimmy would make sure that no one found a moment's peace until Jolie's source was identified or his trial started, whichever came first.

  Missing out on Michael's dinner didn't seem such a bad price to pay for that.

  As he had expected, Shawna was waiting with Alexander. Like Remy, like Smith himself, she was a lawyer by education; six years ago she had given up a promising career with the most respected law firm in Washington, D.C., to join the FBI. The same traits that made her damn near impossible to work with in her own office—she was tough, methodical, precise and very detail-oriented—made her very popular indeed in the U.S. Attorney's office. When Shawna delivered a case, it was neatly wrapped and tied with a bow. She was so thorough that convictions—or guilty pleas—were practically a given on her cases.

  But, again like Remy, she had little tolerance for reporters, which she was making clear to Alexander when he motioned Smith into the office.

  Without interrupting her, Smith sat down in the empty chair opposite her and settled back to listen. He'd heard it all before from Remy, from Alexander, from Shawna. He'd even let off some of the same anger himself a time or two. It was tough when you were doing the best damn job you could while adhering to the limits and restrictions of the law, and along came someone like Jolie, operating under few limits and restrictions and finding out all sorts of things that had eluded your best efforts.

  When Shawna ran out of steam, Alexander asked, "What do you propose we do?"

  "Bring her in. Question her. Arrest her."

  Smith shook his head. "That won't accomplish anything."

  "She has a reputation for protecting her sources. I know," Shawna said snidely. "But that reputation has never been tested. Take her before a judge, get her slapped with a contempt citation and put her in jail for a while. Maybe then she'll decide that the reality of protecting her sources isn't as easy or as noble as the theory."

  Again Smith shook his head. "If we charge Jolie and she goes to jail, we'll be making a martyr of her. She already has tremendous respect in this city, both among the law-abiding citizens and the not-so-upstanding. That will only boost her status, to say nothing of bringing media across the country down on us. They always pick up on it when a reporter goes to jail for shielding a source."

  "So what do you suggest, Smith?" Alexander asked.

  He shrugged. "I think we should talk to her—talk, Shawna, not threaten. It can't hurt to ask where she got her
information, even if she's not likely to tell. Other than that, about the only logical thing to do right now is take her story and see if you can develop anything from it. Maybe there's enough there to point you in the right direction."

  There was a moment's silence while his boss considered his suggestion. Neither Alexander nor Shawna was happy with it; he could see that in their expressions. He could also see that they knew he was right. Maybe this article was a one-shot thing with Jolie. Maybe she'd come across some information and that had been it. Maybe she would be willing now to share it with them.

  And if it wasn't a one-shot story? If she had more information, enough maybe for a series of articles? If she wasn't willing to share it?

  They would find out soon enough.

  Then they could take whatever action might be necessary.

  "All right," Alexander agreed. "Shawna, you see what you can do with the story, and, Smith—" Pausing, he smiled. His boss so rarely smiled that Smith rightly took it as a warning. "You see what you can do with Jolie. Deal with her. This weekend. Come in to see me with good news Monday morning."

  Deal with her, Smith thought resignedly. People didn't deal with Jolie Wade; they got dealt with by her. He wasn't a man who accepted failure easily—that was part of what made him such a good prosecutor—but he was likely to come out of any dealings with Jolie on the losing end.

  But he also wasn't a man who turned away from doing his job. Deal with her, Alexander had said, and that was what he would do.

  At least, he would try.

  * * *

  Jolie stood at the counter in her small kitchen, barefoot and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, surveying the salads she had just finished making. Hers was a chef's salad, filling a decent-size serving dish and swimming in blue cheese dressing. It was heavy with turkey and ham, three kinds of cheese, and enough tomatoes, onions, olives and croutons to hide the fact that there was very little lettuce in the bowl. The salad she had made for Cassie was in a regular-size bowl, consisted primarily of spinach and sprouts and would be eaten perhaps with a drizzle of fresh lemon juice but most likely dressing-free.

  Such differences in the eldest and youngest of the Wade kids, she thought, fishing a plump black olive from her bowl and licking the blue cheese off before biting into it. She loved real food and was willing to pay for her indulgences with daily runs, while seventeen-year-old Cassie was a vegetarian who hadn't eaten sugar or fat in other than negligible amounts in more years than she could remember.

  The differences didn't stop there. Jolie loved rock and roll, while Cassie's musical tastes ran to the more esoteric; the haunting, lyrical strains of some group who seemed to speak little, if any, English drifted down from upstairs. Jolie dressed for comfort in well-worn jeans and trousers, T-shirts and sweaters and shorts, while Cassie wore dresses, usually long, shapeless and black. Jolie loved bad movies, while, for Cassie, if it didn't have subtitles or was shown at anything other than the artsy little theater over near the school, it wasn't worth seeing. Although Jolie loved her dearly, it was hard to believe that the same blood pumped through their veins.

  But it did.

  "Cassie," she called, carrying the bowls and silverware through the house to the living room. "Dinner's ready."

  "I'll be right down." Though she shouted to be heard, Cassie's voice sounded serene, unruffled. She was an elegant young woman, possessing more grace, more class and style than all the other Wades put together. Occasionally Jolie wondered where it came from and why she hadn't gotten at least a small portion of it herself.

  She set the bowls on the coffee table and was returning to the kitchen for their drinks—soda and steaming herbal tea—when the doorbell sounded. Detouring to the door, she tiptoed to see out the peephole. She expected to see longhaired, leather-jacketed Trevor, the latest in a long line of young men who had fallen head over heels for Cassie.

  Instead, she saw Smith Kendricks.

  Sinking back onto her heels, she reached out to unfasten the dead bolt, then rose onto her toes and checked again. It was still Smith standing in the porch light's yellowish glow.

  Still the last person in the world she would expect to find at her door on a sultry hot July night.

  As the bell pealed again, she undid the locks and opened the door halfway, leaning against it to study him through the screen door. He was over six feet tall and lean without being lanky. His bearing was elegant, his clothing expensively casual, his style understated. A pretty boy—that was what they would have called him, somewhat derisively, twenty years ago on Serenity Street

  .

  In the past twenty years, she had come to appreciate pretty boys.

  Given half a chance, she could come to appreciate Smith Kendricks very, very much.

  But half a chance was more than she would ever get. She knew Smith's type, and she was about as far away from it as a woman could be.

  Ah, but she could dream, couldn't she? Dreaming had brought her this far, to a successful career and a neat little house half a city and an entire world away from Serenity Street

  .

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she gave him a smug smile. "Slumming, Kendricks?"

  "I thought I'd see how the little people live," he replied, clearly amused by her greeting. He always looked so serious, so superior, so—hell, so rich—that she forgot, from the last time she'd seen him to the next, that he had a sense of humor.

  "'The little people'?" she echoed. "Is that a reference to my social status or my physical stature?"

  "Which would offend you more? Being considered common? Or being called short?"

  "Being called short." She was common, as ordinary and working-class as a person could be, and she wasn't ashamed of it. She wasn't ashamed of being short, either, but, oh, how she would love just once to have legs a mile long.

  "How about vertically challenged?"

  "Maybe I'm not short. Maybe you're just tall."

  He acknowledged the possibility with a nod, then asked, "Is this a bad time?"

  That was her cue to back up, open the door and invite him inside. She didn't. "For what?"

  "To talk."

  "Business?"

  Again he nodded, and again she thoughtfully considered him through the mesh door. No doubt he was here about her story; she had expected some sort of contact from the government, although she had figured it would come from the FBI—maybe from Remy, because he knew her, or Shawna Warren, because she was in charge of the case. What did it mean that the assistant U.S. Attorney himself had come? And what did it mean that he had come to her house on a Friday night, when he surely had better things to do, instead of showing up at the newspaper or summoning her to his office on Monday?

  "I can save you the trouble," she said at last. "The answer's no."

  "So what's the question?"

  "'Will you tell us who your source is?' That's what you're here to ask, isn't it?"

  Instead of answering, he looked toward the well-lit room behind her. "Can I come in?"

  After a moment's hesitation, she unlatched the screen door and stepped back. When he stopped in the broad doorway leading to the living room and looked around, she made a sweeping gesture. "Welcome to my humble home." He made no secret of his interest in the room. After a thorough inspection, he turned and gazed down at her. He seemed to be debating something; after a moment, he gave a shake of his head.

  "What?" she asked.

  "I was just trying to associate the word humble with you. It doesn't work." Turning back, he settled his gaze on the two bowls on the coffee table. "You have company."

  "Just my sister. She's upstairs."

  "You should have told me I was interrupting your dinner."

  She moved past him and went to sit in the armchair, picking up the bowl as she passed. "Salad hardly qualifies as dinner. I wanted hamburgers or steak, but Cassie's a vegetarian," she said crabbily as she picked a piece of turkey out and ate it. "Sit down, present your case, ask your questions, and I'll tell you n
o again. Then you can tell your boss that you tried but I was totally uncooperative."

  "Which won't surprise Alexander one bit," he replied with a chuckle. "You do have a reputation for being uncooperative."

  He had gorgeous eyes, she thought, that reflected his emotions. They were a pretty blue—she would have expected brown to go with his hair—and they laughed when he was amused, scowled with annoyance and turned soul-numbing cold when he was angry.

  She wondered idly how they looked when he was aroused; then, realizing that there was nothing idle about her body's response as her temperature climbed a few degrees, she banished the thought. This was business, she reminded herself. With a man like Smith, it would never be anything but business.

  "All right," he agreed, settling on the sofa. "First off, I'm here because it was the only way to keep Shawna from having you picked up and taken in for questioning."

  "Interrogation, you mean," she corrected him dryly. "She takes her job seriously, doesn't she?"

  "Yes, she does. Kind of reminds me of you."

  Jolie didn't appreciate the comparison, although she could see his point. She and Shawna Warren did have a lot in common. They both cared about their jobs, and they were both pretty single-minded when it came to doing them right. They were both considered—unfairly so, in Jolie's mind—less than feminine by a number of the men they worked with, because they were ambitious, they had drive and determination, and they wouldn't settle for anything less than best. In a man it was considered assertive; in a woman it was aggressive, with all its most negative connotations.

  But sharing a number of traits didn't mean she had to like the other woman.

  "So … you don't care to come forward with the identity of your source."

  She shook her head.

  "Obviously it's someone in Falcone's organization."